


i've been damned so many times i've lost count

by fusion_ego



Series: so it seems i'm someone i've never met [1]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Adopted/Rewritten Series, Alternate Universe, Demon Sex, Explicit Language, Ghosts (Kinda), Haunting, M/M, Mild Gore, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-09-06 06:27:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16827004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fusion_ego/pseuds/fusion_ego
Summary: Mark stumbled out the next morning and was so distracted by the prospect of coffee and Cinnamon Toast Crunch that he almost forgot about the laptop still sitting on the counter. It had gone into sleep mode during the night, and curiously Mark punched in his password while stuffing his face full of cereal.The Word document greeted him. It wasn’t blank anymore.Keymashes in a variety of fonts took up seven pages, most of them completely incomprehensible and entirely indecipherable. Black and green seemed to be favorite colors, and Zalgo text appeared on the last page. The whole thing reminded Mark of a child learning where to place their fingers on a keyboard, and it was… Oddly adorable.At the end of the last page was a message that made something fuzzy and warm tingle in Mark’s chest:“h̸͈̚ ̶̩̅ ̸͔̊ ̴͈͘ạ̶̛ ̷̙̃ ̶̈́ͅ ̵͍v̶̐ͅ ̶̻̎ ̵̨̑ę̴̚ ̴̡͠ ̵̘͝ą̷͠ ̵̧͌ ̶̜́g̴̠͛ ̵̯ơ̴̠ ̴͈͝ò̵̭ ̴̤̂ḓ̷ ̴̭͛ ̷̈́͜d̵͚̈́ ̵̢͋ ̷͎̔ ̴̜͊a̸͔y̵̥͛ ̵͈̅ ̵̦̈́ ̵̨̕ ”((Rewritten/Adopted))





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [i've been damned so many times i've lost count](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11661291) by [antisepticdork](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antisepticdork/pseuds/antisepticdork). 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, Loch here, coming at you with a series NOT of my own creation this time around.
> 
> This series is a slightly revamped version of the amazing antisepticdork's series "so it seems i'm someone i've never met", and is being written with their permission as I've adopted the series from them and plan to finish it for the sake of all the readers left hanging, particularly my good friend who was super excited for it to end and really wanted me to adopt it.
> 
> What you see here is, for the most part, EXACTLY the same story, with only minor edits because I didn't see anything that really needed changing about the original. The biggest difference will likely be the difference in writing style between antisepticdork and myself... Which is the whole reason I went through the process of rewriting the series instead of just finishing the last story in the series, if I'm honest - the difference in writing style isn't huge, but it could be a little jarring to finish the reading the tale in a different writing style than you started reading it in.
> 
> Anyways, title is still from "River Below" by Billy Talent (which is a real banger and a good Anti song, by the way) as I saw absolutely no reason to change it.
> 
> Please let me know what you think, and thanks so much to antisepticdork for giving me permission to adopt the series <3
> 
> Merry Christmas, y'all.

It started with the kitchen cabinets.

Mark Fischbach thought himself to be a reasonably organized person, but even if he was the biggest slob on the entire planet, he was pretty sure that he would have noticed that, about a month after he moved into his new place, his kitchen cabinets (which were closed every night when he went to bed―you know, like a _normal_ apartment) were standing wide open every morning. He lived alone except for his dog, Chica, so unless she’d grown opposable thumbs at some point since their move to LA and was expertly hiding them in her perfect golden floof, there had to be some sort of bullshittery afoot.

It was simple enough for Mark to shut them each morning as he waited for his coffee to brew, but that was so far from the point it might as well have been in another country. He didn’t know _why_ the damn cabinets were open, and even though earthquakes were common in Los Angeles, Mark had never once heard of one disturbing _nothing_ except for the cabinets in one person’s apartment.

After about a week of mysteriously self-opening cabinets, the weirdness escalated to Mark walking into the kitchen one morning to find everything that had, the night before, been put neatly away where it belonged _strewn_ about the room, across the counters and floor in a haphazard and frankly rather dangerous mess. Stepping further into the room to examine the full extent of the damage, he slipped and fell right on his ass in a lake of Ragu pasta sauce and was amazed and freaked the hell out in equal measures to see that the plastic jar had been deliberately opened and upturned to create the mess.

“What the fuck?” Mark whispered to himself, jumping about a mile in the air and shrieking like a little girl when there was a rustling noise in response.

A quick peek around revealed Chica, happily munching away at the 50-pound bag of dog food he stored in the bottom of the pantry, which was admittedly something of a relief. Not only was there no stranger in his apartment making strange rustling noises, but his dog was okay and had clearly brought her appetite.

The food bag had, to his horror and amazement once more, been quite deliberately slashed open with one of Mark’s kitchen knives, which was stuck in the wall near the trash can.

“What the _fucking fuck?”_

He held his breath, wondering for an absurd moment if he was actually going to get a response and feeling like a goddamn idiot when none came. With a sigh and a disbelieving shake of his head―did he believe in ghosts now, was he _that_ guy?―Mark grabbed a mop and decided that, for now, he’d chalk this up to a _very_ concentrated earthquake and simply _ignore_ the Ragu and dog food conundrums for the sake of his sanity.

* * *

Another week passed, and Mark’s precious sanity was in rather short supply.

Ethereal Asshole Ed (his “affectionate” nickname for the absolute dickweed who kept causing problems, whoever they were) had graduated from wreaking havoc in the kitchen to acting like an ectoplasmic bag of dick-cheese in the rest of the apartment. Their (Mark wasn’t going to assume gender) habits included loosening the bathroom faucet before Mark used it, removing the knobs from literally every door, and yanking Mark’s bedroom curtains down at one in the morning. Every morning. And that one created such an ungodly amount of noise that Mark was pretty sure his screams were echoing in outer space.

The maintenance man for the apartment complex―a hulking bear of a man named Ken―had taken to growling every time that Mark called his office. Between patching and painting the kitchen, a visit from a plumber, and multiple knob replacements (a phrase Mark _never_ wanted to hear), the cost of keeping up with his creepy roommate was putting a dent in Mark’s budget. Video game design was a good line of work, but another repair call would probably mean no food for a while.

Staring at the bills piled on his kitchen counter one night before bed, Mark felt the last frayed strands of his patience tying themselves in a knot. He had to do _something._ Retrieving his laptop from the sitting area near the window, he made sure to back up all of his important files to a flash drive before plunking it down onto the counter as well.

Mark opened a blank Word document and addressed the apartment at large: “Hey, buddy, listen up! I don’t mind you being here, but if I have to call that maintenance guy one more time he’s probably going to straight-up _eat_ me. Like _really_ eat me, and not in the fun way.” He rubbed at the back of his neck, half annoyed with himself for thinking this might work and half embarrassed at his word vomit, “Look, just… Type out whatever’s bothering you, okay? Pretty sure you couldn’t write anything that’s more expensive than what that plumber wanted for me to stare at his ass crack.”

Satisfied with his big speech, Mark strained his ears, trying to detect any noise that might imply he wasn’t going completely fucking bonkers.

...

Nothing.

Dejectedly, he went to bed, fully expecting to emerge in the morning to a burned-out laptop and whatever other mess Ethereal Asshole Ed decided to cook up in the middle of the night.

* * *

Mark stumbled out the next morning and was so distracted by the prospect of coffee and Cinnamon Toast Crunch that he almost forgot about the laptop still sitting on the counter. It had gone into sleep mode during the night, and curiously Mark punched in his password while stuffing his face full of cereal.

The Word document greeted him. It wasn’t blank anymore.

Keymashes in a variety of fonts took up seven pages, most of them completely incomprehensible and entirely indecipherable. Black and green seemed to be favorite colors, and Zalgo text appeared on the last page. The whole thing reminded Mark of a child learning where to place their fingers on a keyboard, and it was… Oddly adorable.

At the end of the last page was a message that made something fuzzy and warm tingle in Mark’s chest: “h̸͈̚ ̶̩̅ ̸͔̊ ̴͈͘ạ̶̛ ̷̙̃ ̶̈́ͅ ̵͍v̶̐ͅ ̶̻̎ ̵̨̑ę̴̚ ̴̡͠ ̵̘͝ą̷͠ ̵̧͌ ̶̜́g̴̠͛ ̵̯ơ̴̠ ̴͈͝ò̵̭ ̴̤̂ḓ̷ ̴̭͛ ̷̈́͜d̵͚̈́ ̵̢͋ ̷͎̔ ̴̜͊a̸͔y̵̥͛ ̵͈̅ ̵̦̈́ ̵̨̕ ”

“Hey, thanks,” He said, feeling a little better about the whole situation in spite of the obvious issue this still was, “My day’s better already, now that you’re not embedding knives in my walls.”

Much like the previous night, Mark wasn’t actually expecting a response. So when the screen on his laptop dissolved into a rainbow of fizzling pixels before forming a new, blank Word doc, he felt entitled to the little yelp he let out. He grabbed a barstool and sat down before he could  _ fall _ down, one hand clapped over his mouth so no other decidedly not-masculine noises could escape him.

(Dimly, he thanked the him of about a minute and a half ago for setting the bowl of cereal down.)

Through parted fingers, Mark asked, “You’re… Here? Like, during the day?”

Slowly, more Zalgo appeared, with the keys on the laptop getting pushed down one at a time: “i̸'̴m̶ ̸a̴ ̵ ̵l̶w̵a̷y̸ ̶ ̷s̵ ̵h̶ ̵e̸r̵ ̸ ̷e̵,̵ ̸a̶l̶ ̷ ̶w̵ ̶ ̸ ̷a̶ ̶y̸s̶ ̷ ̸ ̵w̴ ̷ ̴ ̶a̸t̷c̶h̵i̵n̸ ̴ ̸ ̶g̴.̸ ”

Mark wrinkled his nose a bit. “Like… When I’m in the shower? That’s just a  _ little _ creepy.” He suddenly and  _ vividly _ recalled the many times he’d jerked off since moving into this apartment. “You may’ve gotten more than you bargained for, pal.”

A noise filled the air that made the hair on the back of Mark’s neck stand up; it was high and reedy like an off note on a violin… Or like laughter. “s̸o̵ ̴ m̴u̶c̵h̶ / ̴ ̶p̶__ ̷o̶ ̴ ̵r̶n̶,̵ ̵ ̴s̸o̸ ̶ ̸l̷i̴t̵t̵ ̷ ̶l̷e̵ ̴ ̷ ̸ ̷ ̷t̷i̸m̶e̴__.”

Mark laughed, “You’ve got me there.” It occurred to him, at about that second, that he’d just come out as bisexual to a ghost, since the aforementioned ghost had apparently seen his browsing history of both straight and gay porn. In the grand scheme of things―you know, mosty the  _ ghosts are real _ part―that didn’t seem like as much of a big deal as he’d thought coming out would be. “You must have more going on than observing my fantastic lack of a sex life.”

More Zalgo appeared on the screen: “i̴t̶'̵ ̴ ̸ ̷s̷ ̴ ͜ n̴o̷t̵ ̵ ̷ ̶ ̷ ̵a̵s̷ ̵ ̵ ̸ ̶ ̷ ̷ ̵e̵x̷ ̶c̶i̸ ̵ ̴t̴i̵n̵g̷ ̵ ̷a̸ ̷ ̷ ̶ ̶s̶ ̸ ̵ ̷y̴o̷u̷'̶d̶ ̶ ̶t̶ ̴ ̸h̸ ̴ ̵ ̷i̸ ̴ ̵n̴k̵.̵ i̶'̷v̴e̷ b̸̢̉e̷͓͝ḛ̷̇n̶͚̈ ̵̡̅ ̴̝͑ ̷̝̎ ̷͈̏t̶͉̃ ̸̹̎ ̵̯̋ ̸̫̽ṛ̸̉a̵̞͠p̸̛̭p̷̙͌e̸̳͠d̸̳͑ ̸̦̆h̵͉͗__e̷̱͌__r̷̦͑e̵̅ͅ ――f̶ ̸ ̶ ̵o̷――r̷___a̶――w̴̞̚h̵͋ͅị̸̆ ̶̖̍ ̴̪̐ ̷͙̄l̶̘̈́ ̸̧̊ ̶͚͒ ̵̜̔e̴̹̓.” A pause. “―― __t̸ ̸ ̵ ̸h̷e̴ ̶__ ̵y̵ ̶ ̴ ̵ ̵f̸o̷r̶g̵o̴t̸ ̸a̴ ̴ ̷b̶ ̵ ̷o̵u̶t̶ ̷m̸ ̷― ̸ ̵e̶.”

“Who did?” Mark asked, feeling just a little perplexed.

“e̷v̸―e̸ r̸y̶o̵n̴e̷.”

Frowning at the screen, Mark considered this new information. Wherever he’d initially expected this conversation to go, it hadn’t been here. He hadn’t expected his ethereal roommate to seem so… Despondent. That was probably stupid in hindsight, of course, since they were, y’know,  _ dead, _ but Mark tried not to judge a book by its cover. Or in this case he was trying to judge a book that was completely invisible… And now the metaphor was dead. He’d killed it trying to rationalize and if that wasn’t just the story of his fucking life…

“Well, I haven’t forgotten you,” He intoned, “I probably couldn’t, what with all the flying knives.” Swallowing, he continued, “By the way, I think we’re doing this wrong―I haven’t introduced myself yet and you’ve already seen my dick.” Like the idiot he  _ knew _ he was, he stuck his hand out like he was waiting for someone to shake it. “I’m Mark.”

The slightest pressure wrapped around Mark’s hand from thin air, the phantom touch cool enough to make him shiver. If Mark stared hard enough, he could’ve sworn he saw a vague outline of white fingers against his own tanned skin.

Two words wrote themselves on the Word doc. “Ȋ̵̼'̵̻ ̶̦͝ ̴̦̉ ̷̗̊ṃ̴͠ ̶̘̑A̴̻̕n̸̜͝ ̴͓͋ ̵͕̆t̷̛̘i̶.”

* * *

The rest of the day after Mark’s close encounter with spirit-kind was almost disappointingly uneventful. Anti went back to doing whatever the hell it was he normally did during daylight hours and Mark chipped away at work-related projects for a good few hours before he went on a run with Chica. She was absolutely ecstatic about getting out to chase her tail in the sunshine and quickly tuckered herself out. She settled down for a nap almost as soon as they got back to the apartment.

Mark took a shower to rinse off the sweat and the stink of air pollution (LA smog was no joke, he had found) and came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist.

The first thing he noticed was an odd hum, echoing and buzzing all around his bedroom.

The second thing he noticed was the person on his bed.

He sat on the edge of Mark’s mattress like he belonged there, reclined back on his elbows in a pose that might have been seductive if it weren’t so damn tense. He looked to be around Mark’s age, with milk-pale skin and the vague semblance of a beard. He was wearing nothing but black―black t-shirt, jeans, and combat boots, and a pair of shiny plugs in his ears. His monochrome color scheme was interrupted by a shock of dark green hair that appeared to be buzzed down on the sides, but the most notable thing about him were his eyes. One was blue as the sky on a summer day, and the other was… The other was just plain  _ wrong, _ black sclera giving way to a glowing green iris while blackened veins pulsed under the delicate skin near the radioactive looking eye, trailing down his face and behind his ear.

As he processed all this, Mark was already grabbing the nearest solid object―his laptop, from its place on his nightstand―to brandish as a weapon. “Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here?”

The intruder on his bed frowned, a furrow digging in between generous eyebrows. He made a sound in his throat, as if he wanted to speak, but it sounded screechy and distorted to Mark’s ears. The green-haired man’s mismatched eyes widened in distress and he sat up straighter.

Involuntarily, Mark took a step forward, and that was when he noticed that the strangers lips were…  _ Sewn shut. _ Thick black thread punched diagonal lines through fragile-looking skin, tied off on the same side as his black-and-green eye in a cruel imitation of sutures. Old blood was caked around the thread, which appeared to be strung so taut that the stranger couldn’t even part his lips, let alone open his mouth enough to speak.

In Mark’s hands, the laptop gave an almost violent shudder, screen glitching momentarily before solidifying into something familiar: a blank Word document.

“Ỵ̷̄ ̶̫́ ̵͉̔ő̷̘ ̴͎̈́ ̷̨͝u̶̬̾ ̷̲̇ ̵̹͐ ̸̒ͅ ̸̮͋d̷̡̒o̵̻̊ ̶̹̈ ̸̠̔ ̸̻̌n̸̦'̶̞͝t̶̛̟ ̸͇̍r̴̚͜ ̵̯̊ ̴͎́e̵͚͑ ̵̼͆ ̵̡̑c̵̒ͅǫ̸͊ ̵͔̄ ̷̩̾ ̸̙͝g̸̨̒ ̴͈́ ̷̱͒n̶̛̦ị̴̾ ̵̱̈́ ̷̠͗z̷̹̕e̷̮̔ ̵͉̑m̷͚̆e̸̍͜?” Materialized before Mark’s eyes, and his gaze snapped from the computer to the man on the bed.

“Anti?” Mark whispered, ashamed to hear his voice crack. He cleared his throat and wondered if  _ this _ was the point where he  _ officially _ completely Lost His Marbles. “How are you here?”

Anti’s piercing gaze didn’t leave Mark’s face, but the laptop’s keys clicked out more words. “I̷ ̶ ̵ ̵ ̸'̷ ̷ ̵ ̵m̴ ̶ ̸ ̸ ̶h̴e̷ ̴ ̸ ̷r̴ ̵ ̸ ̵e̸ ̸b̷e̴c̵a̸u̸s̴e̶ ̵o̶f̴ ̸ ̸ ̴ ̶y̸o̷ ̴ ̶u̷ ̴ ̶ ̵.̵”

Mark blinked, not sure he understood. “Me? What did I do?

“Y̴̦̽ǫ̸̝͊u̷̖̫͝ ̵̖̩̌̇ ̵̪̅̈́ͅ ̴̨͓̄b̷̈́͜ ̷̢̀ ̴̥̟̅e̷̬͔̾̃l̴̘̈́ ̵͇͚̑ ̵͚̪̐ ̵̼̖̈́i̴̹̋e̸̜̝͊v̶̫͆e̶̼̓ḋ̵̳̠ ̵̖̈̚ĭ̶̥̤ ̴̻͕̓ ̵̼̅̚n̸̹͗ ̶̰̹͌̐m̸̟̈́ ̴̢̢̐ ̴̧͕̊ ̴̯̻̄ē̷̩͕.” The hum in the room changed frequency, fluctuating up and down. “T̵h̶e̴ ̴o̴t̴ ̵ ̴h̵ ̴ ̷ ̵ ̵ ̶ ̵ ̴e̴r̸s̶ ̸ ̵w̵h̵o̸ ̶ ̴ ̶w̴ ̷ ̷e̷r̵e̶ ̸ ̵ ̷ ̷h̴e̷r̷e̸ ̴ ̸ ̶ ̷ ̴ ̸b̸e̷ ̷ ̷ ̶f̷ ̸ ̷ ̴o̷r̸ ̷ ̵e̵ ̷ ̵ ̸ ̴t̸h̴o̸u̸ ̷ ̸ ̸g̶h̷t̷ ̵t̷h̷ ̴ ̷ ̴e̴ ̸ ̴ ̷y̸ ̷ ̶ ̶ ̶ ̶w̷e̵r̸e̴ ̷c̴ ̵ ̸ ̶r̸ ̷ ̵ ̷a̶z̶y̸ , ̴b̷u̸t̸ ̶ ̷y̶o̵ ̷ ̴u̷ ̴ ̸ ̷.̷ ̶y̸ ̷ ̵ ̶o̸u̴ ̷ ̵m̵a̷ ̷ ̵d̵e̵ ̵m̵ ̴ ̷ ̵e̸ ̸ ̵ ̷ ̴ ̶r̷ ̸e̴a̶l̴.”

What the hell was he supposed to say to that, exactly? “I, uh… You’re welcome?”

Anti’s head snapped back, and it took Mark a couple of seconds to realize that the rumbling, reverb-filled bass rattling his bones was laughter. It was muffled due to Anti’s lips being sewn shut―and, shit, Mark was so caught up in the craziness of Anti actually being real, being  _ here, _ that he’d blown right past the whole  _ traumatic injury _ thing.

Before he knew what he was doing, he reached out, fingertips just barely brushing against the edge of Anti’s mouth. He let out an involuntary little gasp when he actually felt something―skin and thread and a ragged wound―beneath his fingers, since he was still half-convinced he’d accidentally eaten a tab of acid.

Anti flinched, and the outline of his body glitched for a second, like Mark’s laptop had.

Mark winced sympathetically (and a little guiltily), “Sorry. That must hurt like hell.”

He moved to pull back and almost jumped out of his skin when Anti’s long fingers snatched Mark’s wrist, keeping his hand in place. The digits curled around Mark’s arm were noticeably cooler than mark’s own body temperature and tipped with teardrop-shaped black nails that bore a close resemblance to claws. The grip was firm but not punishing; Mark could have broken it easily.

He didn’t.

“Do you want me to cut these?” He asked, instead, touching his thumbnail to one of the bloody threads. He’d had a few medical ordeals in recent years that had required stitches, but he couldn’t imagine what having a large-bore needle jabbed through both lips repeatedly would feel like. “I think I have some nail scissors somewhere. That’d probably do the trick.”

Anti made a curious sound, like he hadn’t expected Mark to offer to help. The laptop’s keyboard clicked out two words: “T̵h̴ ̶ ̸a̶n̸k̴ ̸ ̷ ̸ ̵ ̷ ̵ ̵ ̷ ̶y̸ ̵ ̶o̸ ̸ ̴ ̵ ̷u̴.”

Mark just snorted, finally pulling his hand carefully from Anti’s grip and standing, towel still clutched around his waist. He rooted around in his dresser for some sweatpants before heading back toward the bathroom. “Don’t thank me yet.” He advised, “Let’s make sure I don’t accidentally snip off your nose first.”

* * *

In the bathroom, Mark allowed himself to freak out a little.

“Okay, okay, this is fine,” He muttered under his breath, both hands wrapped around the edge of the vanity’s counter. “Who am I kidding?” He snapped at himself immediately afterwards, “This isn’t fucking okay―I have a fucking  _ spirit _ in my bedroom! There’s no piece of media in existence where this ends well for me!”

Sighing, Mark ran his fingers through his damp black hair, then dropped the towel and pulled on the sweatpants―mercifully, he’d avoided grabbing the pair with the crotch that refused to button shut (he really needed to get rid of those). He dug through the drawers of the vanity until he located the manicure set his ex-girlfriend had left behind, which had somehow managed to make the trek from Cincinnati to LA with him.

Mark emerged from the bathroom for a second time a moment later, nail scissors clasped in a (slightly) sweaty palm. Anti was right where Mark left him, perched on the edge of the bed with his talon-like hands folded in his lap. The laptop had gone into sleep mode while Mark was gone, but it roused itself with a screen-shake when Anti’s gaze caught his.

Now, Mark realized, he had a problem: how the hell were they going to do this? If he sat next to Anti like before, Mark would be at a seriously awkward angle and could potentially stab Anti with the nail scissors. If he had Anti stand, it looked like he was going to be shorter than Mark was, which produced another angle problem.

That meant… Oh, God.

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Mark said, “Uh… I think if I’m gonna do this without cutting you, I should probably… Straddle you?”

The last part came out like a question, and Mark wanted sincerely to smack himself. Hard.  _ Smooth move, Fischbach. No wonder you’re perpetually single. _

Anti blinked at him.

Mark blinked back.

It was a truly rousing exchange.

Then, Anti moved his hands out of his lap, preternatural nails denting the bedspread. His posture had relaxed fractionally since he’d first appeared in Mark’s room, but now he looked wary. Mark didn’t blame him; this was going to be an awful lot of…  _ Touching, _ and they barely knew one another aside from some knife-throwing and early-morning exchanges through a Word document.

“Hey, take it easy,” Mark said, trying to be reassuring as he came closer, “If I do something you don’t like, just shove me off the bed, okay? I’ll understand.”

Anti nodded curtly, and Mark figured that was as much invitation as he was going to get. Slowly and oh so carefully, Mark clambered up and settled a knee on either side of Anti’s thighs, acutely aware that there wasn’t a lot of distance between their nether-regions. The position put Mark higher than his target of Anti’s mouth, but the distance wasn’t as drastic as it would’ve been if they were standing.

Anti shivered like he was cold, mismatched eyes wide through feathery lashes as he stared into Mark’s face. His hands twitched against he bedspread, and the right one rose to tentatively clasp Mark’s left hip, presumably to steady him in the event he suddenly pitched backward. Those talon-like nails rested in a way that likely should have been frightening against the bare skin of Mark’s back, causing goosebumps to pop up and spread across the skin there.

“Thanks,” Mark muttered, because against all odds he didn’t feel threatened by those nails in spite of the fact that they could probably rip him open, but the moment he swallowed his throat became incredibly dry. He wasn’t sure if it was nervousness for what he was doing or his body finally realizing he should be scared of this guy.

Taking a steadying breath, he pushed the thoughts aside and raised the nail scissors, telegraphing his movements so that Anti would be startled. The first cut was easier than Mark would have expected; the thread started well outside the perimeter of Anti’s lips, and there was ample room to fit the blades of the scissors through. The cuts grew progressively more difficult as the thread was strung much more taut nearer where it was tied off, but at least Anti could work his jaw a little.

When he’d made all the cuts he could, Mark set the nail scissors down and eyed the knot near the corner of Anti’s mouth. “This is gonna hurt.”

“I know,” Came as a whisper from Anti, his voice low and rough from disuse. The electronics in Mark’s bedroom immediately and simultaneously spat static. His laptop shut off entirely in an act of protest. “Hurt worse goin’ in, though, trust me.”

Mark frowned to himself, but didn’t comment on that, simply grasping the knot and, after giving Anti a little time to process that he’d done so, yanked it loose. He figured it was probably a lot like ripping off a bandaid―better to just get it over with.

Anti swore loudly in a language Mark had never heard, the strange words tinged with the barest hint of an Irish brogue. He flickered underneath Mark, the edges of his body going fuzzy with glitches before solidifying again. Black blood (or at least Mark  _ assumed _ it was blood) oozed from the holes where the thread had previously resided, and without thinking Mark smeared it off of Anti’s chin with his thumb.

“Who did this to you?” Mark asked softly, although the very next second he found himself momentarily distracted by the full pink swell of Anti’s bottom lip. Spirits being a real thing and him performing impromptu bedroom surgery aside, he was only a man… A man who hadn’t had sex in like, a  _ long _ time. “And how does that work, even? Like how do you sew a ghost’s mouth shut?”

Anti’s eyebrows shot up to his neon hairline. “You think I’m a  _ ghost?” _

Mark’s eyebrows scrunched downward. “You’re  _ not _ a ghost?”

Anti made the same hair-raising sound of amusement he had while making fun of Mark’s PornHub search history. “I’m not a ghost, you idiot! How many ghostly laps have you sat on without fallin’ right through ‘em?”

“You’ve got a point,” Mark admitted. That would’ve been his cue to stand up, except Anti’s talons were still tight against his waist. “Uh… Okay. So if you’re not a ghost, then what are you?”

“Something you should be afraid of,” Anti returned lowly. It sounded like he was trying to be menacing, “I’m old and I’m dangerous and I’m fucking  _ angry.” _

Mark stared at him blankly for a moment before he snorted out a laugh. At Anti’s incredulous look, Mark only laughed harder. “I’m sorry,” He managed to say, “But it’s hard to take you seriously when you’ve got an eye that’s literally crying black tears. That’s like, the most emo thing  _ ever.” _

Anti’s mistreated lips curled into a bitter imitation of a smile. “If you think that’s emo, you should meet the guy who sewed my mouth shut.”

Mark’s good humor left him immediately. An odd, ugly feeling twisted in his gut, and he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t ever felt it before. “I  _ really  _ shouldn’t,” He said, the words rumbling in his chest, “Because I’ll knock his teeth down his fucking throat.”

Anti froze stiff, eyes scraping over Mark’s face, then down over his still-half naked body. His voice was little more than a whisper when he said, “Oh, fuck me.”

“I mean, I’m not opposed,” Mark said, only to realize what he’d said a second later and turn rather pink, “Or, uh, what’s wrong? I mean? That would probably be a more appropriate response.”

“You sound and you  _ look… _ like  _ him.” _ Anti’s expression and body language seemed a cross between a cornered rabbit and a bull getting ready to charge, which was an odd combination and made for a very weird expression. “Do you know anyone who looks like me?”

Mark couldn’t help making a face. “Pretty sure I don’t know anyone else who goes fuzzy at the edges and talks in riddles, no.”

“I’m serious!” Anti hissed, grip on Mark’s waist tightening fractionally―and when had he started using two hands, exactly? And why didn’t Mark wan’t him to let go? “Is there  _ anybody _ you can think of? Even somebody you only met once?”

“No, I―” Mark paused, the denial dying in his throat, “There’s Seán―er,  _ Jack― _ McLaughlin. He works for the same game developer as I do, but he’s based in Ireland so we’ve never actually met in person.”  _ And I have a really pathetic unrequited crush on him, _ he added mentally. The rest of what Anti had said caught up with him, and he frowned, that ugly feeling in his gut coming back with a vengeance. “Wait a second, back up. You mean the dick who sewed your mouth shut looks like me?”

“Not just looks like you,” Anti said grimly, “He  _ is _ you.” He pulled a face, “Well, kind of.” With seemingly no effort at all, he tightened his grip on Mark’s waist once more and  _ lifted _ him off his lap, and holy Christ on a motorcycle that was hot. “Do you have any liquor?”

“If I drink booze I’ll die,” Mark responded somewhat flatly, “But I think the last person who lived here left a bottle of vodka in the freezer.”

“That’ll do,” Anti said before glitching off the bed and making his way to the door, asking over his shoulder, “So, what do you know about doppelgängers?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Psssst, you should buy antisepticdork's original novel "Stitches" as a paperback/ebook [here](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07G7CLQ6Y?pf_rd_p=d1f45e03-8b73-4c9a-9beb-4819111bef9a&pf_rd_r=R32PCKGD66F9MQN4HZP9) if you've got the money! They're an amazing author and I really recommend literally everything they've ever written and will ever write in the future.


	2. Chapter 2

“Let me make sure I have this right,” Mark said as he took a rather hefty gulp of his coffee, “And you just feel free to correct me if I miss something, or, y’know,” He made a vague motion, “Suddenly develop an aneurysm.”

He and Anti sat on opposite ends of Mark’s couch as the sun set in between the high-rises and Chica sprawled in a coma-nap at their feet. Anti had kicked off his boots and talked for somewhere between twenty minutes and an eternity about what he was, sipping occasionally at the extra-large vodka cranberry Mark had made from a can of Ocean Spray and the bottle of Stoli the last tenant had left in the freezer.

“You’re a fetch,” Mark began, setting down his mug for the sake of ticking off each point as he made it again, “Which is basically the same thing as a doppelgänger, except Irish instead of German.” He allowed that a moment to sink in for a second time, “To be specific, you’re _Jack’s_ fetch, and if you appeared to him it would be considered… Ominous?”

“Fetches generally appear to their human as a warnin’,” Anti clarified.

Mark couldn’t help noticing, now, that the Irish lilt to his words was very similar to Jack’s. Anti’s voice was… Scratchier, maybe a little deeper, and certain words crackled like a poor radio station, but Mark found he didn’t mind. In fact, he may have actually liked it a bit.

“It’s said if you see your double, death follows.”

“Right, okay,” Mark ticked off another finger, “But fetches live longer than humans, because they’re from a Mirror World or whatever. You’ve been alive way longer than Jack has, and so has my double―what did you say his name was?”

He felt a little foolish having to ask, but things like _names_ just didn’t tend to stick with him when he was being told about more important issues. Like the fact that the man currently drinking on his couch wasn’t a man at all, for instance.

Anti’s lips pressed into a thin white line and he winced minutely when the gesture pulled at the scabs around his mouth. His wounds were healing rapidly, but they still had to hurt. “Dark.” He said, “His name is Dark.”

Mark didn’t allow himself to laugh at the name like he wanted to. This wasn’t the time for that. “And Dark’s the one who trapped you here?” He asked instead.

“Yeah.” Anti agreed, frowning, “We had a… Disagreement. And he sewed my fuckin’ mouth shut before he stuck me in here.”

Mark could practically _feel_ that there was more to that part of Anti’s story. “Why would he do that?”

“Because he’s a prick!” Anti snapped, sighing gustily and deflating when his sudden anger was enough to make Mark flinch back. He put down his drink and hugged himself, pale arms wrapping around his slim torso perhaps more forcefully than would necessarily be comfortable. “Sorry. You’ve been… Nice to me, and since I can’t actually leave this apartment the least I should do is not yell at ya.”

He looked miserable.

Mark slid closer on the couch, settling in on the middle cushion. It still left a gap between them, but it was inches rather than feet.

“I think you’ve got plenty to be yelling about, from what you’ve told me,” He reached out and poked Anti in the side, prompting the fetch to peek at him from under the neon fringe that fell in his face. “So if you’re Jack’s exact double, what’s up with the eye?”

One of Anti’s hands reached up unconsciously, claw-like fingernails brushing the skin under the black sclera of his right eye. “M’not human, Mark, remember? Sometimes parts of the Mirror World bleed through into this one.” He snorted and dropped his hand into his lap, “Dark’s the same way, he just hides it under a fancy suit and tie.”

Mark made a face. “You’re sure this guy’s my doppelgänger? I’ve only worn a suit twice in my life and I threw up on myself both times.”

Anti grinned―his smile full of slightly crooked, too-sharp teeth―and threw back his head to cackle.

That was enough to make Mark want to share every embarrassing thing that’d ever happened to him, as long as it meant Anti would smile some more. He was gorgeous, and Mark thinking that had absolutely _nothing_ to do with the similarity to Jack. In fact? Mark hadn’t even noticed the resemblance until Anti had asked if he knew anyone who looked like him.

“Oh yeah, laugh it up―” Mark said, fake outraged, “ _You_ didn’t have to watch me try to waltz with loafers full of vomit!” He made sure to keep his voice silly-sounding and light, to bear the least resemblance to Dark’s possible. “Hey, since you’re not actually a ghost, does that mean you need to eat?”

“Now that I’m corporeal again, yeah,” Anti said, lips still turned upwards. He glitched briefly as Chica stirred, yawning a doggy yawn before sitting up to nudge at the fetch’s hand with her nose―the universal canine signal for _pet me._ His eyebrows rose as he tentatively patted Chica on the head. “She likes me? Animals don’t usually… Do that.”

“Of course she likes you, doofus.” Mark stood, stretching from his fingers to his toes, tilting his face toward the ceiling as his spine popped heinously. He only remembered halfway through that he was still shirtless. Was Anti watching the way his muscles shifted underneath tan skin? Or did Mark just have an extremely active (and wishful) imagination? “You _did_ make a point of slashing open her food bag, remember? I’m surprised she hasn’t called a Neighborhood Dog Watch meeting to declare you their new messiah.”

“She looked hungry.” Anti looked immensely pleased when a scratch behind Chica’s ear resulted in her tail thumping against the floor. “And now that you mentioned it, so am I. Did you keep that Chinese food menu you got in the mail the other day?”

“Do I look like some kind of heathen?” Mark asked, “Of course I did!” He grabbed the aforementioned menu off the kitchen counter along with his cell phone. “Let’s get some grub, and then we’ll figure out how to un-spring your trap card.”

* * *

After two hours and enough lo mein and egg rolls to feed a small army, Mark put away the leftovers while Anti loaded the dishwasher. How to use the appliances was apparently one of the many things Anti had picked up from being confined to the apartment for… However long he’d been here, which was yet another question Mark added to the mental Things to Ask Anti Later list he’d started keeping. The whole situation felt strangely domestic, if you factored out the _fetches are real_ and _Anti’s being held in the apartment against his will_ things.

A thought occurred to Mark as Anti bent over to retrieve a dishwasher tablet from the cabinet under the sink, and it was thankfully a little more intelligent than an observation about how good Anti’s ass looked. “Hey, do you wanna take a shower? I can probably find some clothes for you to wear.”

Anti paused, tilting his head in consideration. “That would be nice. I haven’t taken a shower in years, and I’m pretty sure watching you in there doesn’t count.”

Mark―who had retrieved Chica’s leash and hooked it to her collar―almost tripped over one of the barstools at the island. He spluttered for a moment, and Anti seemed to enjoy watching him struggle to form words. “You watch me while I―?”

“We already talked about your porn habits―this is tame by comparison.” Mischief crept into Anti’s face as he shrugged, leaning against the refrigerator, the pose somehow exaggerating the pretty curve of his waist. He looked Mark up and down in a way, openly flirtatious, “Besides, you’re… Interesting.”

“Interesting, huh?” Mark dropped Chica’s leash in favor of stepping closer to Anti, close enough that he could feel the low hum of static that emanated from the fetch’s skin. “Is that a euphemism?”

“Oooh, big word,” Anti said, all sass. He blinked up at Mark with mismatched eyes, the wounds around his mouth almost completely healed and his near-constant glitching merely a shiver along his borders. “And what do you think I would mean by it if it was?”

“I was actually really hoping you weren’t being sarcastic,” Mark admitted quietly. He knew what they were really discussing―the fact that Anti had watched Mark get himself off in the shower and enjoyed it―but a part of him was afraid that speaking so plainly would break whatever spell had fallen over them. “Because my complete lack of a life outside of my job isn’t interesting at all.”

He brought his hand up to Anti’s face, much like he had when he’d first seen him, except this time Mark cupped Anti’s cheek. Rough stubble scratched at his palm, and Mark’s heartbeat rose from a jog to a sprint when Anti leaned into his touch, the corner of his mouth brushing Mark’s thumb. All Mark had to do was lean down a little, and―

A bark broke the silence, and Mark’s gaze snapped away from Anti to see Chica by the front door, watching them with baleful brown eyes. She _had_ been promised a walk when Mark brought out the leash, after all.

“I, uh,” Mark said, Chica’s interruption like a bucket of cold water getting poured over his head. “I’ll find you those clothes.” What the hell was he _doing?_ Anti was corporeal for the first time in _years;_ the last thing he probably wanted or needed was somebody who looked like the guy who trapped him here making moony eyes and trying to hump his leg. “You know where the bathroom is―I’ll leave the clothes on the bed, okay? I need to take Chica out.”

Anti’s expression was unreadable, and his posture had gone stiff once more. “Sure. Thanks.”

Mark watched him head for the bathroom, wondering what the fuck just happened and whether or not he wanted it to happen again.

* * *

Mark brought Chica down to the courtyard behind his apartment building, which was green and well-lit and reduced the chances that he’d get mugged at the late hour to almost nil. While Chica did her business and attempted to decimate the local cricket population, Mark sat on a bench with his phone and pondered whether or not he should text Jack.

He and Jack knew each other fairly well. They’d worked on several games together, and Mark’s architectural art style was weirdly complimentary to Jack’s sound design. But Jack was none the wiser about Mark’s crush on him, and if Mark opened the conversation with, ‘hey, you have a doppelgänger and he’s trapped in my apartment’, he was _pretty_ sure that Jack would either run screaming for the hills or call the LAPD all the way from Ireland to report an unstable person.

Or both.

And Mark wouldn’t blame him one bit; he was starting to question his own sanity when it came to Anti, quite frankly.

Heaving a sigh, Mark pulled up Jack’s contact in his phone and shot off a text.

[Mark]: _hey, you awake?_

It was buttfuck o’clock over in Europe, but Jack’s response was almost instantaneous.

[Jack]: _Yeah dude, what’s up?_

[Mark]: _Just wondered how you were._

Mark and Jack hadn’t worked together for a few weeks, and Mark was ashamed to admit that their communication had petered off because of it. This was why he only had, like, three friends.

[Mark]: _It feels like we haven’t talked in forever!_

[Jack]: _I know, right?_

The reply was enough to make Mark crack a smile all on its own―Jack had a certain ability to lighten the mood without trying, even over text.

[Jack]: _I have some pretty big news actually! I moved to Brighton!_

“Whoa,” Mark muttered aloud, unable to hold in the utterance. As far as he knew, Jack was a homebody who grew up in a cabin in the middle of nowhere; it was hard to picture him in a big, touristy city like Brighton Beach. His fingers skipped over the touchscreen even through the surprised haze in his brain.

[Mark]: _Wow, that’s cool - congrats! Seems like a big change. Any particular reason you moved?_

There was a pause, like Jack stopped to consider his next reply carefully.

[Jack]: _Easier to get to London for the big work stuff. You know how it is._

[Mark]: _I sure do._

Work was what had brought Mark to LA, and he’d done nothing but bitch to Jack about the woes of moving cross-country from the moment he started packing the first box back in Cincinnati to the second he’d finally unpacked the last one here in LA. It was a little odd to him that Jack hadn’t returned the favor when he completely _changed_ countries, but Mark tried to brush off the twinge of disappointment he felt. He knew Jack to be talkative, sure, but maybe… Maybe he just hadn’t thought he could bitch to Mark? Or hadn’t wanted to. And that was totally cool!

Totally cool.

[Mark]: _What’s the new place like?_

Another pause, this one long enough for Mark to wonder if Jack had fallen asleep with his phone in his hand.

[Jack]: _It’s nice. Good internet connection._

That was… Out of character. Jack was usually so exuberant with his words, regardless of whether it was through texting or waving his arms everywhere over Skype. Those five bland words stood out to Mark as cagey, evasive―almost like somebody was reading over Jack’s shoulder as he typed.

Or, _maybe,_ Mark was a paranoid fuck coming off the strangest day of his _entire_ life, and his brain was twisting Jack’s lack of romantic feelings for him into something this conversation wasn’t.

Before Mark could answer his last message, Jack sent a new one.

[Jack]: _I’m actually pretty beat, man. Catch you later?_

Sighing, he replied.

[Mark]: _Sure thing. Have a good sleep._

He waited a full ten minutes, but his message remained unread; Jack must have turned his phone off before he saw it.

Mark didn’t know why, but that bothered him more than every little weird part of the rest of their conversation put together. He whistled for Chica and she trotted on over, smiling a doggy smile complete with a cricket leg sticking out from between her teeth. Mark sighed again and picked up her leash, resigning himself to flossing for bug appendages before he went to bed.

* * *

Mark was tossing pieces of an ungodly large cricket into the trash when Anti emerged from the bedroom, green hair plastered to his head from the shower. He’d put on the clothes Mark had left out for him―a pair of drawstring pyjama pants and an Overwatch shirt―and his slender frame was practically drowning in cotton even though he and Mark were almost the same height. His feet were bare, socks piled with the rest of his clothes, and Mark chuckled when he saw that Anti’s toenails were pointed and black, just like the nails on his fingers.

“What’re you laughin’ at?” Anti grumbled, pushing his hands through his hair in rather futile attempt to get it off his forehead. “I can’t help it you’re made of fuckin’ muscles.”

Was he… _Blushing?_

Mark wasn’t entirely sure, but a greenish flush had flooded Anti’s cheeks where they’d turn pink on a human.

He looked damn good, blushing like that while he wore Mark’s clothes.

“You’re adorable,” Mark said, and grinned when Anti crossed his arms over his chest and huffed. “I’m serious! You’re easily the cutest supernatural being I’ve ever met.”

“I’m the _only_ one you’ve ever met, you ass,” Anti snapped, but there was very little heat behind the words, “Ant _trust me,_ you wouldn’t say that if you knew what churns around in here under your friends’ face.”

The mention of Jack sobered Mark pretty much on the spot, and he pulled his phone out of the pocket of his sweatpants.

“Speaking of Jack,” He said, “I tried texting him while Chica was busy murdering every cricket within a mile radius.”

Anti’s brows lifted, his black and green eye flaring with interest, “And? You didn’t say anything about me, did you?”

“No, but this was our conversation.” Mark tossed his phone in Anti’s direction; the fetch caught it with a blurred speed―like he’d started moving before Mark even thought of throwing it to him. “I know you said that just because you’re his double doesn’t mean you know anything about him, but does that seem a little odd to you?”

Anti frowned down at the phone screen, side-stepping when Mark headed for the bedroom door, “Seems like he didn’t tell you jack shit.” He said, turning to him where he’d paused in the doorway, “Pun not intended―I take it that’s not normal?”

Mark sighed and headed into the bedroom, “Two days before Christmas last year Jack and I had a six-hour Skype call while he baked four different kinds of cookies for his relatives. He described anything I couldn’t see from the webcam, from how the gingersnaps tasted to how fucking _gross_ the inside of his over was.” Another sigh left him, “He tells me _everything.”_ Plopping down on the side of the bed he tried to gather himself, scrubbing his fingers through his hair in his agitation, “But I’m probably just overreacting… Right?”

Anti sat down next to Mark and put his phone on the nightstand. With a flick of his wrist the charging cable was plugged into both the phone and the wall.

It seemed becoming corporeal hadn’t diminished his talent for manipulating electronics.

“I don’t want to freak you out,” Anti began.

Mark stuttered out a slightly hysterical laugh before slapping a hand over his mouth to stop it. “I think it’s a little late for that, man.”

Anti’s lips quirked into a wry smile. “Right.” He said, “Look, it’s possible―and I want to clarify that the chances are _infinitesimal_ ―that Dark found Jack, like you found me.” He flopped backwards on the mattress, arms over his head. The position pulled his borrowed t-shirt up far enough to expose his lower belly, which Mark noticed was surprisingly hairy. “It’s way more likely your friend’s just got a lot going on and he was tired.”

“Why would Dark want to find Jack?” Mark asked, glancing at the way the waistband of the pyjamas rode low on Anti’s hips before forcefully avoiding his gaze. “What good would that do him?”

“Everyone who has a fetch―or doppelgänger, or whatever name you give us―is connected to their double even if they don’t realize it.” Anti tipped his head back to stretch his neck, and Mark saw a flash of something (another mouth??) before it disappeared again. “Think about it like this: have you ever felt angry for no reason? Or sad? Afraid, and you didn’t know why?”

Mark thought about that and was startled to recall how many times he’d felt emotions that made no sense throughout his life, almost like they were filtering into his mind from a great distance. “So what you’re saying is that it’s possible Dark knows I’m with you? But they’d have to be strong feelings to make it to him, right?”

He deliberately _did not think about earlier_ in the kitchen, and about how he’d wanted nothing more than to press his lips to Anti’s, to map out the fetch’s mouth and body with his tongue. That desire was still there, humming in Mark’s bones in time with the constant low-frequency noise that cropped up whenever Anti was around.

“Pretty strong, yeah.” Anti paused. “For example, if you thought I was really fuckin’ annoying―”

“I don’t think you’re annoying!” Mark exclaimed, wincing internally. Had he given that impression? When Anti raised an eyebrow at his outburst, Mark scrambled to continue, “Okay, so maybe at the beginning I thought you were annoying? Like when you poured the pasta sauce everywhere and I had to clean for hours and I wound up with tomato in places no one wants tomato, _ever._ Or when you kept knocking down my curtains, but I thought you were just trying to see outside―”

A clawed finger on Mark’s lips silenced him mid-ramble.

Anti sat up, chuckling at him, and the sound was somewhat reminiscent of a computer startup whirr. “Mark, shut up. I was kidding.”

“Oh,” Mark said, acutely aware of both the soft texture of Anti’s finger and the proximity of his claw to his left nostril. He took a breath, knowing that if he didn’t say what was on his mind _now_ he never would. “Anti, look, about before… It’s not that I’m not interested―because hoo fucking boy, am I―but I didn’t want you to think I was, like, trying to use you as a stand-in for Jack. And since you said I look so much like Dark, I wasn’t sure you be comfortable with me trying anything.”

“Including ravaging me on your kitchen counter?” Anti inquired, chortling when Mark spluttered indignantly. His hand moved lightning-fast, going from near Mark’s mouth to around his throat in an instant, black claws poised directly over his jugular. “Besides I’m hardly defenseless. If you do somethin’ I don’t like, you’ll know.”

Mark swallowed, felt his Adam’s apple brush against Anti’s palm, “What about…?”

“Dark?” Anti hummed contemplatively, removing his hand from Mark’s throat to brush the bangs off Mark’s forehead. They were as close as they had been in the kitchen by now, pressed together from ankle to hip with scant inches between their upper bodies. “You look similar, but you don’t strut around in a goddamn Armani suit all day like you own the world. And Dark isn’t tan, he’s gray―almost like a corpse. You don’t notice it until you get close, and if you get that close then, well, you’re already dead.” His thumb brushed under Mark’s eye, a role-reversal from earlier that had Mark leaning into his touch with more trust than he probably ought to be displaying. “Then there’s the eyes. You’ve got these beautiful fuckin’ things, and Dark… It’s like looking into a snake’s eyes. There’s nothing there.” He was quiet a second, “At least there wasn’t for me.”

“You loved him,” Mark said.

It wasn’t a question―the answer was far too obvious.

Anti smiled, but it was a brittle, sad expression. “I did. But he never gave me the time of day, beyond being a partner in his killin’ sprees. So instead of showin’ ‘im what I felt, I convinced him I was crazy instead. A psychotic murderer who loved droppin’ bodies just like he did, but with less of a gentlemanly act beforehand.” He snorted, “Guess I did too good of a job, seein’ as he put me in here.”

“You didn’t deserve that,” Mark murmured. He gave into temptation and ran his thumb over Anti’s bottom lip, which was fully healed and velvety-soft. “But for whatever it’s worth, I’m glad I left my computer out last night.” He choked back a sudden swell of emotion and added in a whisper, “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” Anti said, voice rough like a needle scratching a vinyl record. He stared at Mark with mismatched eyes, pupils blown so wide that the green of his right eye was almost gone, rendering the whole orb near-black. His usual brashness was overwhelmed by desire. “You gonna make a move? Or am I gonna have t’―”

Mark crushed their mouths together in a bruising kiss, a groan catching in his throat when he felt Anti’s arms wind around his neck, long fingers weaving into Mark’s inky hair. Sharp teeth―a little _too_ sharp, if Mark thought about it―caught at his lower lip and tugged, the taste of copper flooding through Mark’s mouth as he ran his tongue over Anti’s palate. His hands travelled of their own volition, moving from cupping Anti’s jaw to sliding down to his waist before gripping the juts of his shoulder blades.

The buzzing hum coming from Anti intensified, his whole form shuddering into static before solidifying again, nails pricking into Mark’s scalp as they continued to kiss. He broke away to moan when Mark used his grip on Anti’s shoulders to roll them, pressing the fetch to the mattress with his body and attaching greedy lips to the underside of his subbly jaw. Mark leaned some of his weight onto one elbow as Anti shifted beneath him, legs spreading to accommodate Mark’s hips as his hands travelled from Mark’s hair to the hem of his shirt, rucking it up and allowing elegant fingers to learn the muscular planes of his back.

Mark stretched the collar of Anti’s ( _his_ ) shirt to expose more pale skin, brain too lust-addled to remember taking the damn thing off was an option.

He groaned, suddenly aware of how hard he’d gotten when Anti hitched a leg around his waist, cock pulsing where it was pressed into the V of Anti’s groin through the dual layers of their pyjamas. There was… _Something_ lined up next to Mark’s dick, warm and pulsing and slightly damp. Mark’s hips rocked experimentally and Anti shuddered again, flickering various shades of red and blue and green as his tongue came out to lick his bottom lip―and was his tongue forked now?

Well, _that_ was a thing.

Mark noticed the tongue, and then Anti noticed that Mark noticed. He shrank in on himself like he expected Mark to pull away, and there was no fucking way that would happen over something so… Trivial? When had a forked tongue become _trivial?_

Probably around the same time Mark thought his apartment was haunted, come to think of it.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” Mark ground out, panting for air and stupid with arousal but doing his damndest to think rationally. “You can show me. I don’t mind.”

Anti made a wounded sound and brought one hand down to cover his face, cheeks tinged green with what Mark knew now was definitely embarrassment. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew what I looked like under this fuckin’ fetch shell.”

Mark finally got his breath back and leaned in to press a tender kiss to Anti’s temple, then his ear. His skin tasted less like the saltiness and more like ozone, but Mark found he didn’t mind. “I’m not going anywhere, unless you want me to. Don’t hold yourself back on my account.”

Anti caught Mark’s face in both hands and stared at him intently. Whatever he saw on Mark’s face―whether it was lust, comfort, or steadily-growing affection―must’ve reassured him. The next thing Mark knew, they were kissing again and he could hear the skin of Anti’s neck pulling apart, the sound wet like snapping chewing gum. Then there was a second forked tongue, longer and _much_ thicker than the one in the mouth on Anti’s face, and it was curling itself around the back of Mark’s neck.

He paused. The second tongue pulled him impossibly closer to Anti, almost like it wanted to eat him. “Should I be worried?”

Anti stilled when Mark did, and opened his radioactive-looking eye to peer at him. “Sorry,” He muttered against Mark’s lips. “I tried to warn you.”

Mark pulled back enough to get a better look, and yep, that was another mouth. It ran along the width of Anti’s throat like a knife slash, and its long tongue was encircled by two rows of shiny white shark-teeth. When it noticed Mark looking, the neck-mouth pulled its tongue back in and grinned at him, the effect not unlike opening a fresh package of razor blades.

“Wow,” Mark said, gaze flickering from the neck-mouth to Anti’s face. The fetch looked like he was bracing for a blow. “You’re gorgeous.”

The mouth on Anti’s face dropped open in shock while the neck-mouth continued to grin like the smartass it was. A third eye opened in the middle of Anti’s forehead, pitch black, “Are you _insane?”_ Anti asked, sounding a little panicked, “I’m a monster, I don’t belong here―I’m little more than a sick parody of the guy you’ve got a hard-on for―”

“Last time I checked I had a hard-on for _you,_ not Jack,” Mark interjected, forcing himself to stay calm when what he actually _really_ wanted to do was find Dark and bash his fucking skull in. He had no proof, but he was _sure_ Anti’s almost completely lack of self-confidence had been influenced by that suit-wearing asswipe some way or another. Nevertheless, he thrusted his hips again to emphasize his point; Anti groaned at the friction, all three of his eyes rolling back in his head. “And you’re not a monster. Pretty sure a monster would’ve, like, ripped my face off or something by now.”

“M’gonna rip your face off if you don’t _do_ something.” Anti made an impatient sound and tugged at Mark’s sirt like it had personally offended him. “Get rid of this.”

Mark sat back, yanking the t-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. He also took the opportunity to kick off his flip-flops, which he’d put on to take Chica for her walk. He shook his hair out of his face and tried to ignore the way his sweatpants chafed against his hard cock, grinning when he realized Anti was staring at him. “What?”

“You’re fuckin’ ridiculous and I hate you,” Anti snipped, before lifting his arms like a pouty little kid. “Take off my shirt.”

“You mean _my_ shirt,” Mark corrected, but he pulled off the oversized garment anyway.

Anti was as pale and lithe as he’d imagined, another lethal-looking mouth grinning along the curve of his ribcage. Blackened veins ran near the surface of his skin in places, and little patches of him seemed to always be shifting around, like pixels constantly forming a new image.

After looking his fill, Mark eased himself back down, leaning his weight on his forearms and smiling when he felt Anti’s hands close around his biceps. “Any other surprises I should know about?”

Anti smirked, but the ghost of uncertainty lingered around his eyes. He raised his hips off the mattress in invitation, leaning up to brush his lips along Mark’s jawline. “Why don’t you take these off and see for yourself?”

Mark snorted. “You know, it figures―you’re wreaking havoc again, and I get to do all the work.”

He grunted in surprise when he felt Anti’s static-laced fingers slide under his waistband, pulling Mark’s sweatpants down far enough for his trapped erection to spring free. Mark shimmied around, swearing under his breath when the pants caught momentarily on one of his ankles.

He caught the hungry look on Anti’s face and stifled a moan, “Thought I was supposed to be undressing you?”

Anti’s smirk was now a mischievous smile. “Hey, you were the one who started complaining.”

He yanked his borrowed pants down, hooking them over his knees before kicking them onto the floor. On first glance, Mark wasn’t sure what was supposed to be surprising. Anti’s cock was a little slimmer and shorter than his own, flushed a dark green instead of angry red and oozing brackish, sticky-looking precome from the tip. Below that was where the similarities ended; in place of visible testicles was a slit a little shorter than Mark’s finger in length, the opening wet with what appeared to be the same kind of thick fluid that leaked from Anti’s dick.

It took Mark’s brain a second to process what he was seeing, but when he did it took everything he had not to cum on the spot. “Oh, fuck me.” He said, almost reverent, “You’ve got _both?”_

“Like I said, things in the Mirror World are a little screwy. When I get worked up it’s hard for me to regulate eyes, mouths―or other things,” Anti explained, shrugging his shoulders. “From what I’ve seen, gender is a social construct kept up by old white men. Genitals don’t dictate gender, and where I come from it doesn’t matter what you use to fuck.”

“Christ,” Mark said, “You’re amazing.”

He was so hard it hurt, and when he leaned down to kiss Anti again they both groaned at the contact, Anti’s hands flying up to tangle in Mark’s hair again while his legs hooked around Mark’s waist. This time when mark rolled his hips Anti moved to meet him halfway, brushing Mark’s cock first against the wet folds of his slit and then along the hardness of his dick, the skin of which felt coarse, almost like scales. Anti made a keening noise in the back of his throat and thrusted his hips again, tightening his legs in what could only be an attempt to draw Mark inside of him.

Mark shuddered and reigned in the urge to just hump forward into the damp heat. He drew away from Anti’s mouth in favor of gasping for breath, resting his forehead against the fetch’s prominent collarbone. “Can… Can I… I can’t hurt you, right?”

Anti let out one of his strange high-pitched laughs, little glitches buzzing across his skin in random spots. “Of course you’d fuckin’ ask me that―no, you can’t. And you can’t knock me up, either.” Talon-like nails dug into the skin of Mark’s back, hard enough to draw blood, and Mark could feel the restrained strength in Anti’s leg muscles. “Get on with it already, _a mhuirnín.”_

One of Mark’s hands ran down Anti’s side before gripping the underside of his thigh. Mark twitched his hips forward and made a pathetic little noise at the sensation of the had of his cock being engulfed by velveteen heat. The slide in was almost impossibly tight, but Anti’s body stretched to accommodate Mark’s dick easily, the sticky greenish substance coming from his slit more than enough to ease the way.

Mark had wanted to ask what the hell Anti had just called him, but that thought flew out his head along with the rest of his higher brain function once he was fully seated inside the fetch.

“Oh, _fuck_ me,” He said, voice gravelly and totally wrecked, “Holy shit.”

Anti whined high in his throat―reminding Mark bizarrely of a VHS tape being rewound―and clenched around him.

Mark almost blacked out.

He started moving blindly (literally, since he was seeing spots), pulling out nearly all the way before thrusting back in, nibbling at Anti’s chest and barely noticing when the tongue from Anti’s second mouth emerged to lick the side of Mark’s face. He slid an arm under Anti’s lower back, pressing their bodies _that_ much closer together and deepening his thrusts until Anti was writhing and glitching constantly, the sounds coming from his mouth downright sinful.

Mark possess a thriving sex drive, but considering how long it’d been since he’d screwed anything besides Ol’ Righty, this wasn’t going to last. Anti was warm and tingly and _alive_ under him, meeting him halfway at every thrust and going fuzzy every time. His arms wrapped around Mark’s back tight enough for Mark’s ribs to creak warningly, long nails biting into his skin and filling the air with the metallic scent of blood.

“Mark― _oh_ ―more,” Anti said, voice pitching higher with every breath, each meeting of their hips enough to punch the air from his lungs, “Harder. I want _more.”_

Mark let out a laugh that strangled into a moan when Anti’s teeth dug into his shoulder. _“More_ might kill me, you know.”

Anti pulled back from the impressive hickey he’d made to give Mark a sly look. “Oh, give me a break―I’ve watched you in the shower, remember?”

Mark groaned in response―how could he forget that?―and slid his hand back under Anti’s thigh again, using the leverage to hook it over his shoulder. The new angle meant his next thrust made Anti _scream,_ claws raking at Mark’s blood shoulders as he came. Blackish-green fluid splattered from his dick onto both of their stomachs, and Mark could feel the same fluid leaking out around where they were joined. Anti’s inner walls trembled, closing in around Mark in a hot, almost painful embrace, and his own orgasm hit him like a freight train a second later as he emptied himself inside Anti.

Mark had the forethought to pull out before he collapsed on the fetch’s chest, heedless of the mess between them.

Anti took his weight with a grunt as they both fought to catch their breath. Fingers bean carding through Mark’s sweaty hair, careful not to cut his scalp; Mark smiled to himself as he groped around, blindly searching for Anti’s free hand and lacing their fingers together. Every muscle in Mark’s body ached and the wrecked skin on his back was starting to prickle with pain as his adrenaline faded, but he didn’t give a shit.

For the first time in what felt like forever, he was actually _happy._

Anti made a contemplative noise, which caused Mark to peer up at him. The fetch’s less-than-human features―the third eye and throat-mouth, just to name a couple―had begun to fade as he calmed down. “I suppose this means that now you won’t want to help me get out of here, huh?”

Mark’s brows drew together, “What? Why wouldn’t I?”

Anti stared at him, deadpan as he replied, “Because now you want to keep me as a sex slave. Duh.”

Mark rolled his eyes, shimmying upward until he could smack a kiss against Anti’s green-flushed cheek. “And you call _me_ an idiot.” He rolled his eyes, “I told you, we’ll figured it out.” A yawn forced its way out of Mark’s mouth without his consent, and gosh, the crook of Anti’s neck felt awfully warm and inviting… “After a nap. Naps are good.”

Anti pulled a face. “Really? We’re just going to lay here covered in cum?”

Mark grumbled intelligibly and formed words only when Anti nudged him: “Can shower after.” He snaked his arm around Anti’s waist, nuzzling into the soft spot under his ear, away from the skyline’s artificial lights. “Nap now. Naps are good.”

Anti sighed the sigh of the long-suffering before kicking his foot until the sheet settled most of their bodies. He settle his arms under Mark’s ribcage and rested his cheek against his hair. “Humans. You always want _something.”_

“Want you,” Mark mumbled in reply, worn-out enough that the admission didn’t embarrass him in the slightest. “Want you to want me, too.”

A pause, and then Mark felt lips brush against his forehead. Before he fell asleep completely, he could’ve sworn he heard Anti’s echoing, otherworldly voice say, “That’s not a problem, _a mhuirnín._ You have me.”

**Author's Note:**

> Psssst, you should buy antisepticdork's original novel "Stitches" as a paperback/ebook [here](https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07G7CLQ6Y?pf_rd_p=d1f45e03-8b73-4c9a-9beb-4819111bef9a&pf_rd_r=R32PCKGD66F9MQN4HZP9) if you've got the money! They're an amazing author and I really recommend literally everything they've ever written and will ever write in the future.


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